Barbara Blomberg — Volume 09 eBook

In granting Barbara permission to see her child often,
Frau Traut transgressed an explicit command of the
Emperor and, to prevent the evil consequences which
her sympathy might entail, she allowed the mother to
rejoice in the sight of her little son only once a
month, and then always for a short time.

During these interviews she was strictly forbidden
to bestow even the smallest gift upon the boy.

To-day John had voluntarily approached the stranger
to whom he owed his life, but whose passionate caresses
at their first meeting had frightened him, to show
her the little wooden horse that Adrian had just given
him. This had made her happy, and on the way
home the memory of her hidden treasure more than once
brought a joyous smile to her lips.

At home she first sought her children. Her husband,
who had now been appointed mustering officer, was
on one of the journeys required by the service, which
rarely permitted him to remain long in his own house.

Barbara did not miss him; nay, she was happiest during
his absence.

After glancing into the nursery, she retired to her
quiet chamber, where her harp stood and the lutes
hung which often for hours supplied the place of her
lost voice, and sat down at her spinning wheel.

She turned it thoughtfully, but the thread broke,
and her hands fell into her lap. Her mind had
again found the way to the house in the park and to
her John, her own, wonderful, imperial child, and lingered
there until from the next room the cry of an infant
was heard and a woman’s voice singing it to
sleep. Frau Lamperi, who had made herself a part
of the little household, and beheld in its master
the incarnation of every manly virtue, was lulling
the baby to rest. Beside it slept another child,
a boy two years old. Both were hers, yet, though
the infant raised its voice still louder, she remained
at the spinning wheel, dreaming on.

In this way, and while playing on the harp and the
lutes, her solitude was best endured. Her husband’s
journeys often led him through the whole Netherlands
and the valley of the Rhine as far as Strasbourg and
Basle, and her father had returned to Ratisbon.

She had found no new friends in Brussels, and had
not endeavoured to gain any.

Loneliness, which she had dreaded in the heyday of
her early youth, no longer alarmed her, for quiet
reveries and dreams led her back to the time when
life had been beautiful, when she had enjoyed the love
of the greatest of mortals, and art had given her
existence an exquisite consecration.

With the loss of her voice—­she was now
aware of it—­many of the best things in
her life had also ceased to exist. Her singing
might perhaps have lured back her inconstant lover,
and had she come to Brussels possessing the mastery
of her voice which was hers during that happy time
in May, her life would have assumed a totally different
form.

Gombert, who had induced her to move hither, had urged
her with the best intentions during their drive to
Landshut to change her residence. When he did
so, however, Barbara was still connected with the Emperor,
and he was animated by the hope that the trouble in
her throat would be temporary.